


Violet

by wolftrapvirginia



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Betrayal, Destruction, Love, M/M, Self Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolftrapvirginia/pseuds/wolftrapvirginia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keller's POV of Season 2 shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violet

I don’t know what it is about him, is it his craziness (the rhymes, words jumping over each other, those wild eyes searching the room, searching my face) or the fact that I can see through the act, and I’m like a kid who’s anxious to tear the wrapper off a candy bar. I don’t know what it is about, maybe it’s not even him, but it’s about my own ever-increasing loneliness, the fucking sentence sinking in into my skull, eighty-eight years, eigh-ty ei-ght. (I tried to count that in days as I peered out of the DOC van during the transfer but I couldn’t). 

I don’t know what it is, but when he’s standing there, measuring me up, carefully, methodically, I stare back (light blue eyes, messy blond hair, lean, ugly beard). Half-friendly, half-challenging, as the hack introduces us. Tobias Beecher, that’s the name. Sounds too WASPy for max security. What did you do, preppy boy?

Then he leads the way into Emerald City. Ha-ha. I am Dorothy, being led down the yellow brick road of the valley of the shadow of death. (Eighty-eight years ain’t no joke.) The walls are grey, though; no emeralds here. We walk into the pod, and I do my usual routine, wide but calculated smile. 

I try to throw him off guard with one of my classics, “So you a fag?” 

“No. You?” The preppy fish is way too smart for such cheap bait.

“I do what I have to.”

We share a leer. And then, his smile is more manic than sarcastic: “Hogs in the garden, catch 'em, Towser. Cows in the cornfield, run, boys, run; Cats in the cream-pot, run, girls, run, girls; Fire on the mountains, run, boys, run.” He delivers a rhyme with the conviction of a willful but minimally talented acting student (and I fucked a few of those). 

He won’t fool me, though. I see through the “crazy” act, past the messy hair and jerky hands.

But he doesn’t know me, I don’t know him, and this is a prison. I know the rules of the game well, so I just stare for a minute, letting him think he got to me. Let him relax. But as he laughs, all sharp edges and no light reaching his eyes, I feel a pull, down my spine and through my groin, too familiar, too close to home. It’s just like those boys, the rush, the thrill of getting to them, using them, and tossing them aside, it’s just like the stupid fucking robbery, the shudder of the gun in my hand, the rush of the chase. I turn away to make my bed.

There’s something about him. 

 

***

 

Vern catches up with me like the proverbial devil, itching for his due. He gets a moment when I’m walking from the Wizard of Emerald City’s office (McManus, that’s his name),  on my way to the new daily work hell. Vern looks older (deeper lines digging into sickly pale skin), but none the wiser.

He reminds me of a debt. “Time to pay up, Keller,” he says, as I lean casually against the grey concrete. Vern’s cronies surround us, watching out for hacks.

“What’cha need?” I smile. I don’t give a fuck. (Eighty-eight, man.)

And Vern is the same old prick, same old ungraceful bastard; he wants revenge. Not to whack somebody, not contraband, not snitching. Nah. Schillinger is the Old Testament God, all he does all day is think about getting back at miserable cunts who managed to cross him.

I ask who’s the poor soul, and get the same name twice in one day.

“Tobias Beecher.” Vern leans in, curving his mouth. “Lawyer, drunk, from this family of rich fucktards. Right up your alley, Keller. He’s a loose cannon, trust me., an addict. All he needs is a little persuasion, that’s all. I heard he’s your new roommate?”

So _that’s_ what, Beecher. Jesus, what did you do to get under Schillinger’s skin _this_ much? I almost feel a sense of respect for the rhyming fuck.

“He looks pretty crazy to me,” I shrug noncommittally. It’s not the lean rhyming lawyer, it’s the fact that Vern just comes up like that, just expecting unconditional obedience. Like he _fucking_ owns me. And nobody owns me.

“It’s bullshit, he’s a total pussy.” Sure, Vern. That’s why we’re hushing in the corridor like school girls. “Just need a plan to start him on a bottle again, and he’s toast.”

A hack is coming, so I push off the wall lazily, and Vern’s goons start to scramble off. I ain’t no altar boy, and it ain’t my first scheme by any means, probably not even my hundredth, so I don’t hesitate on that part. And it’s true, I have a thing for getting one over arrogant rich folk. What can I say, a man must have a guilty pleasure. 

“Don’t forget,” Schillinger adds. “You owe me a favor.” 

 

 

***

But of course, God is fucking prick. 

I spend no time coming up with the whole thing, swinging my cast at Vern’s Aryan butt buddy, the whole thing staged better than school production of Shakespeare. And Beecher comes to my rescue, the fucking white knight without armor, the perfect mark. He’s good too, quick and efficient; manages to break the prick’s nose before the hacks get to us.

“I owe you,” I say to him in a low voice. Our eyes meet; the wave of anger in his is rising taller than a Midwest twister. 

“I didn’t do it for you, pal. I hate those Aryan fucks.” And he walks off, like a drunken actor off the stage. Uncaring, reckless. 

 

From that point on, it’s easier than easy; I comfort him after his nightmares, he starts spending more time with me, teaching me how to play chess, and I teach him to wrestle. I touch him, more and more: quick friendly grip on his shoulder, patting his back, helping him up by his hand after a wrestling match. Oh yeah, wrestling. (You know, pressing against his body at every angle, gripping his wrists, pinning him, and then feeling his weight on top of me as he gets better.) 

And then one time he has me trapped against his lean frame, his eyes wild, hands hot. He’s won, and he’s hard against my thigh. (And there’s three seconds before he’s gonna freak out, I already know that.) I look him straight in the eye, a billion tiny needles going into my chest at the feeling. One-two-three… He jumps off me, eyes wide.

 

He’s scared and off kilter, but he doesn’t completely withdraw from my attention. When his wife dies, I’m there. When his family doesn’t want to bring his kids, I’m there. I’m so fucking reliable. 

 

Schillinger calls it Operation Toby. He counts the days, he’s so desperate. “Addicts are all the same,” he rasps through the wire in the gym, all righteous. “Give them an pitch, and they’ll OD on it.” 

So he gets me moonshine through a guy from Unit B; the pieces of the puzzle are falling neatly together. 

 

And then Bonnie comes in to visit. 

It’s same day that Beecher sees his kids, and Vern’s tingling in his panties over what’s to come. Just another stupid day, one in a million of what’s to come, forever and ever, for the next eighty eight. Just another twist in the planet’s orbit.

Bonnie comes to visiting hours. She’s getting married. 

I sit there, in my uniform prison pants, across from her under fluorescent lighting, and I no longer know who I am. Should I congratulate her? Should I be happy? Should I be mad and punch the walls, until the hacks drag me off to the hole? 

Bonnie squeezes my hand, but I don’t squeeze back. I come to it. I talk to her, friendly enough, like old pals. I’m happy for her, I am. She deserves her new Clyde (She laughs at that, wrinkles in the edges of her eyes).

I walk back to Em City, grab the moonshine jar from beneath my pillow, and go to the laundry room.

It all fits, now I can get enough sympathy from Beecher to fuck him over, get him to drink with me, but I don’t care. I take a big gulp and throw the dirty clothes inside the machine, and watch it spin. It spins faster and faster, and I get dizzier with each gulp because I suddenly remember this line from back in school, or maybe it was a tattoo on one of the college boys…(I repeat it in my head, over and over, like a schizophrenic.) I am the walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage…. I am the walking shadow, the walking shadow…

 I think about school, about my marks, I think about dead college boys with twisted necks. 

And then Toby comes back from his visitation, and Toby is clean-shaven and preppy. (All he’s missing is a fucking red bow, that’s how attainable he is right now.)

Toby walks in after seeing me, and he has this exciting glint in his eye. Like life is full of possibilities, and I’m his favorite. 

“You doing laundry?! You _hate_ doing laundry.”

He notices the jar and attempts to grab it from me because he’s worried I’ll get caught. 

I push him away. (DON’T drink me, Alice.) I laugh.

I tell him he looks good without a beard.

I think he asks me what’s wrong. 

“Remember I told you I got married three times?” I ask, and my voice is steadier than I thought it would be. I take another sip of the disgusting prison-brewed alcohol.

He jumps on top of the dryer, just plops there easily, with a light grin. Like we’re mischievous teenagers, sneaking a smoke together behind the school. Like it’s nothing, no big deal, when all I want to do is fuck him over that dryer, hard and fast, gripping his curly hair.  

“And why did you get married so often?”

“Call me old-fashioned,” I drawl, “But before I fuck ‘em, I marry ‘em.”

It’s my usual song and dance, the glances, the drawls, the touches before they all give up and give in. And Toby will give in, too. I give him the speech about sex, and watch his fingers curl up and relax against that damn dryer, I watch his light lashes flutter, I watch his every little move. 

And then I tell a small truth. I tell him about Bonnie. 

It’s still within the boundaries, not fucking up my performance or anything. It could be viewed as manipulative. But it’s true.

And I pray, pray to God himself that he doesn’t fucking swallow the bait, please Toby, please. (Run, boys, run!)

But God is a fucking prick because Toby looks at me like I’m worth something, like my whole fucking life wasn’t a mistake. Like he knows what I feel like, for real, not the seductive Keller bullshit, but _me_. 

Like he loves me.

“Come here,” he says softly. Soft eyes, soft words. All madness evaporated, his guard completely down. 

(It’s too late now for the poor Alice. He drank the Kool-Aid.)

But I won’t do it. If he wants, he’ll have to fall down the rabbit hole himself. 

And he does. All addicts are the same, right? 

His hands on my shoulders, he whispers, “I love you.” His voice is quiet but steady. Like he’s never been more sure in his life. It feels like I got shot in the head, my thoughts are scrambling, fleeting, senses overloading and words stumble out of my mouth before I know what happened.

“I love you, Toby.”

Just like that. And then I lean in, kissing him forcefully, pushing him into the dryer. He’s fucking mine, his hands gripping my arms, kissing me back. I vaguely hear catcalls and whistles from outside the room, and then the guards are rushing in. So I have to take my lips off his, and I throw the jar into the fucking glass. Fuck all of you, all of you, all of you. 

The whole thing fits well with Operation Toby, because they drag me to the hole, and Toby is left alone with the second fucking moonshine in the pod. The Aryan fucks watching probably buy the whole thing.

I know it’s a lie, I know he doesn’t really love me. Nobody can love me. If he knew the truth, he’d run faster than the boys from his rhyme. (Or would fucking kill me.) I’m not that stupid. But poor old Vern was right. All addicts are predictable.

 

 

***

 

When I come back, I push him away. I push him away and away and away, and he drinks more and more in response, and Vern’s getting more and more impatient. 

I push him away with small hope he’ll stop running headfirst into the wall that’s awaiting him at the end of Operation Toby. I push him away so he’ll be spared the extra pain. 

But Toby doesn’t stop. 

“Is it the drinking? If it’s the drinking, I’ll stop, I can stop—”

So I push him harshly. How does that feel, baby? Still love me? 

When I come back, I feel nothing. 

I get a letter from Bonnie, she sounds apologetic but happy. She’s fixing the loose ends; poor ex-husband in prison while she’s getting married.

Toby’s eyes look so confused when he looks at me. Confused, lost, hurt, but not angry. 

I do crunches until my lungs run out of air in the gym, and Schillinger finds me there. He says it’s time for the grand finale. Once again, the devil collecting his due, pure and simple. Just business.

 

So I play my part till the end, I’m such a devout fucking actor. 

 

***

 

After, there’s an early lockdown, and I’m alone in my pod. I throw up, over and over, wishing I could empty all my organs, one by one.

After, my temples are like wildfire; I hide my face in my hands, touching the blanket on his bunk.

I let it get to me, completely. (No more holding the gates). All the demons, right here.

His bunk smells like whiskey (fucking whiskey in this place?), and like his hair.

I remember the way he looked at me that day in the laundry room; hopeful, willing to give a piece of shit like me a chance. 

He’ll never look at me like that again.

I search and search, trying to pinpoint the exact moment I _knew_. What is that look? What is earlier? Later? Was it the first time I saw him? 

I don’t know what it is about him, maybe the mood swings. (He’s hot and cold, all warm and off-the-handle manic.) Maybe it’s the fact that he’s my type, the rich WASPy boy, but he’s also a con, he’s all fucked up like me. 

I breathe in his smell as I lay in his bunk. (Toby-Toby-Toby-Toby.)

I let the pain wash over, like a tide.

 


End file.
